


Saltimbocca Saturday's

by horror_business



Series: The Way To A Man's Heart Is Through His Stomach. [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Chef!Mickey, M/M, Oral Sex, Sexual Content, Waiter!ian, restaurant AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horror_business/pseuds/horror_business
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bella Sorna was a new up and coming Italian restaurant in the North Side of Chicago. They had been in business for two years now and their notoriety kept going up and up. Ian has been a server for three months and he enjoys it, mostly. One thing he doesn't enjoy about working here was the irritable executive chef, Mickey Milkovich, who always seems to fuck up Ian's dishes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saltimbocca Saturday's

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This is my first fic for the Shameless fandom....well, actually, it's my first fic ever if I'm being honest. The smut is pretty rushed since I have never done this before, but I am satisfied with it for now. This is un-beta'd and all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> **Saltimbocca:** A dish of pounded-veal scallops rolled with prosciutto and fresh sage. _The name means "leap into the mouth." (_[x](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/articles/italian-cooking-glossary.html%22))

Pre-shift meetings were always the same. The general manager always had the same things to say. Go over today's specials, don't piss off Mickey, the schedule has been updated, don't piss off Mickey, uniform reminders because some people can't tuck in their damn shirts and did she mention don't piss off Mickey? Just checking.  
  
Bella Sorna was a new up and coming Italian restaurant in the North Side of Chicago. They had been in business for two years now and their notoriety kept going up and up. Ian has been a server for three months and he enjoys it, mostly. Serving was relatively easy once you learned to ignore snotty North Side assholes and fake a smile. The tips he receives are amazing and the fast paced atmosphere of the restaurant business is a setting where Ian thrives. One thing he doesn't enjoy about working here is the irritable executive chef, Mickey Milkovich. Mickey was only 23 and rapidly becoming one of the most well known chefs in the North Side and to do so at that age was something of legend. Mickey has been featured in few local articles and has the highest of praises from food critics. His cooking is "simply divine" and his "unique menu items are something to write home about."  
  
Unfortunately for Ian, Mickey has a giant stick up his ass and not the good kind. He was a tyrant and ran his kitchen with an iron fist. Put on a white glove and run your fingers along any surface in the kitchen and the glove will come back cleaner than it originally was. All the cooks seem to be afraid of him and for good reason.  When Ian first started working here he heard a story from one of the old servers about how Mickey once fired someone on the spot because their diced onions weren't cut to his expectations. Mickey was a perfectionist, he doesn't make mistakes. You don't become one of the youngest executive chef's in Chicago by making mistakes.  
  
Which is why it doesn't make sense that Ian's plates always come out fucked up. Missing an ingredient, forgoing one of the sides, sauce on the plate instead of in a dish.  Mickey personally checks each ticket and plate before they get sent out and once again, Mickey doesn't make mistakes. Well, he certainly doesn't make mistakes on anyone else's tickets Ian has noticed.  
  
It started with one plate a night, something small that Ian wouldn't notice until the customer pointed it out like wanting asparagus instead of cauliflower or light sauce instead of the whole serving. Minute things that can be chalked up to Ian putting the order through the computer wrong or memorizing their order incorrectly (the owner thought it was tacky to carry notepads). One mess up a night, Ian could handle. He was human after all.  
  
It's when they started happening more often that he became suspicious. Instead of one plate a night it turned into two or three, but never more than four. Ian knew his memory wasn't that far gone. Besides, he once memorized a table of eights full order down to the "no pepper please" so there's no way he was fucking up this bad nightly.  
  
Confronting Mickey about it was out of the question. If his constantly furrowed brow, angry expression and FUCK U-UP knuckle tattoos weren't enough, Ian has heard plenty of horror stories from his co-workers to even entertain the idea of calling Mickey out. Besides the pre-shift mantra of "don't piss off Mickey" was engrained into the brains of everyone. A pissed off Mickey Milkovich was worse than a slightly angry Mickey Milkovich. Slightly angry seemed to be his default setting and it was working well for everyone so far.  
  
For now, Ian would have to deal with looking like an incompetent waiter with a selective memory.  
  
****  
  
Mickey wasn't always interested in cooking. He was more interested in beating people up and shooting makeshift targets under the El. Fancy dining wasn't something that was accessible to Mickey, boxed mac n' cheese and fast food was his main diet so becoming a chef wasn't something that even crossed his mind.  
  
When he was released from his latest stint in juvie (assault and battery, go figure) his probation officer had set him up with a job at a small local scratch restaurant washing dishes. It wasn't ideal but it fulfilled the terms of his probation. He always came home soaked from chest to toe and the pads of his fingers were so pruned he could barely flick the flint to light his cigarette. His fascination with food started there, just a tiny spark that would ignite to a full blown obsession within the year. He started watching the line cooks prepare food during the afternoons. How there was so much concentration and precision in the littlest of tasks. How the head chef could take a whole pig and butcher it down to use every possible piece he could and make something amazing. How so much care went into the presentation of the plates, because people eat with their eyes first.  
  
It was beautiful. Creating something with your own two hands for other people to enjoy and praise instead of destroying things. Destruction is the only thing his hands were used to. Well...that and the mix of water and soap suds.  
  
Slowly, he started asking questions. How come a certain vegetable was sliced differently for different meals? What was the difference between various cuts of meat? What was the difference between a red onion and a white onion?  
  
To say he was ignorant about food would be an understatement. But he was slowly learning and his interest was noticeable. The head chef, Ronnie, a brute of man with some impressive facial hair and covered in tattoos, noticed Mickey's enthusiasm when he was asking these questions. Soon, Ronnie started teaching Mickey small things on slow nights. How to prepare a simple stock for a soup, the proper way to cook rice, the perfect amount of time it took to cook pasta.  
  
Eventually, a new dish washer was hired and Ronnie allowed Mickey to become his apprentice. Ronnie seemed to be one of the only people who noticed Mickey's budding passion for the culinary industry. He noticed the way his eyes would light up when he tried a new dish and the small smile on his face when he learned something new. The fire in Mickey's blue eyes was growing by the day and Ronnie would be damned if he would be the one to extinguish that flame.  
  
When Mickey wasn't at the restaurant he was at home watching all the cooking shows he could. He picked up a few books to just read over the recipes and try to gain a better grasp on certain flavor combinations. On the rare nights he had the house to himself, he would steal some ingredients from a grocery store and experiment with recipes in the kitchen. Some were more successful than others.  
  
Before he knew it, it was a year later and Mickey was Ronnie's new sous chef. Being a sous chef came with a whole new set of obstacles and responsibilities. Instead of recreating the recipes that Ronnie already perfected, Mickey was allowed to invent some new nightly specials and dream up some of his own unique recipes to add to the menu. The new position also meant learning how to run the kitchen; delegating tasks to the line cooks, food ordering, proper food storage and safety, implementing order and routine. Ronnie didn't fuck around when it came to his standards, not just with food prep but with cleanliness as well. The kitchen staff wasn't allowed to leave at the end of the night until you could eat off the floor and the place basically sparkled it was so pristine. Ronnie ran his kitchen like a Marine leading his troops to war and Mickey wouldn't have it any other way. He hoped to run his own kitchen that way someday.  
  
Mickey spent three years working for Ronnie and Ronnie had taught him everything he knew. Mickey was basically the head chef at this point and arguably knew more than Ronnie. When Mickey heard the new Italian restaurant opening up in the North Side was looking for a new executive chef, he seriously contemplated if he wanted to apply. He didn't want to abandon Ronnie, his loyalty to him was unfathomable, he wouldn't be anything today if it wasn't for him. But Mickey wanted to build a legacy of his own. This was his opportunity to finally do something for himself. Who knows, maybe one day he could be someone's Ronnie and pass on the torch. Mickey knew Ronnie well enough to know that he wouldn't be offended if he left this restaurant. Hell, everyone has to move on eventually.  
  
With Ronnie's blessing, Mickey applied to Bella Sorna. He only had the one restaurant on his resume but with Ronnie as his reference he knew that one job wasn't all that bad. As a requirement for the application you had to come prepared to the interview with your own personal and unique menu. Split into appetizers, entrees and desserts. Minimum of five menu items per section. It was nerve wrecking, inventing his own menu was something he never had to do before. Sure, inventing specials was one thing but that was one dish within the specifications of what the restaurant already offered. This was a whole new ballgame for Mickey, it was an opportunity to come up with something completely original and he was nervous as fuck.  
  
Three days before his big, potentially career making interview, Mickey showed his mock menu to Ronnie while they were taking a smoke break out in the alley. Mickey was nervous and kept cracking his knuckles and biting his lip. Even though Ronnie knew Mickey was applying for the coveted spot at the new restaurant, Mickey was still nervous to show his menu to Ronnie. This made it final. It made it clear that Mickey was ready to forge his own path.  
  
Mickey knew his menu was good. He spent hours in the kitchen while his family was passed out in various states of inebriation trying out every recipe he had invented over the weeks. He felt like a mad scientist with all the hours he spent perfecting his concoctions during the dark of night. For every one dish he deemed worthy to put on the menu there was at least five variations of that dish sitting in the trash. His father would kill him for wasting so much food, but it had to be perfect. No mistakes. No imperfections.  
  
Scanning over the menu twice and blowing smoke up into the sky through the corner of his mouth, Ronnie said "This is good kid, real fucking good."  
  
"Really? I was kinda nervous about the grilled lamb rack with crispy risotto and white truffle oil but it actually tastes really fuckin' good." Mickey replied with a wavering laugh in his voice.  
  
"I'll have to try it out sometime. You're gonna rock that interview kid, proud of ya." Ronnie says while giving Mickey a light punch to the shoulder. "Gonna miss you 'round here. I don't think I'll find anyone that can clean that fuckin' flat top like you."  
  
Mickey gave Ronnie a small smile. "Yeah, well looks like you're gonna have to start cleaning it yourself old man."  
  
Three days later Mickey was flying high walking around the North Side. His interview went well...really fucking well. Despite his prickly demeanor and short temper he knows when to turn on the charm, especially when it involves something as huge as this. His mock menu was received extremely well. Mickey's unique balance of delicate and healthy dishes with savory and hearty dishes was something of brilliance and the owner seemed really impressed with what he had put together. It was the exact type of cuisine they were interested in serving and so far Mickey had presented the most promising menu. The owner was skeptical about the fact that this would be Mickey's first executive chef position, but Mickey assured him that Ronnie could vouch for him. Mickey knew he could run a kitchen, he felt it in his bones. Mickey wasn't confident about many things in his life, but he was confident that he would run that kitchen and run it well. The owner of Bella Sorna told Mickey that he had a few more interviews to conduct but should hopefully be hearing from him by the end of the week.  
  
It was the longest week of Mickey's life. His nerves were going haywire and he was constantly checking his phone in case he didn't feel it vibrate in his pocket.  
  
The call finally came on a busy Friday night at the restaurant. During Mickey's five minute smoke break, he pulled his phone out of his backpack and saw a missed call and voicemail from a number he didn't recognize.  
  
Typing in his voicemail password and putting the phone up to his ear Mickey put the cigarette into his mouth but left it unlit.  
  
"Hey Mickey, it's Arnold from Bella Sorna. Just reaching out to you to let you know that you have been chosen as the new executive chef! Your menu really blew me away and I am excited to see what other elements you can bring to the table. Please give me a call back as soon as you can so we can hash out some more details and set a date to meet up. Welcome to the team!"  
  
The cigarette fell out of Mickey's mouth and remained on the ground, untouched. Staring at his phone screen and pressing the button to listen to the voicemail again the biggest smile cracked its way across his face, you could basically see all his teeth.  
  
It was bittersweet leaving Ronnie, but receiving that black chef coat with his name stitched in white cursive on the front pocket with the Bella Sorna logo underneath was the best moment of Mickey's life.  
  
****  
  
Saturday night was the worst night of the week, without fail. The restaurant was busy as hell and there was basically a line out the door of people waiting for a seat in the dining room. It was chaotic. It was loud. It was obnoxious. It took everything in Ian to plaster that dazzling smile on his face for the whole shift.  
  
There were only two things that made the pain of working Saturday dissipate:  
1\. The tips Ian took home usually amounted to over $300.  
2\. It was the last day he worked before he had two days off in a row.  
  
Besides those two things there was nothing to look forward too about Saturday nights. During the week the clientele was usually business people taking their perspective clients out to a nice meal and the occasional couple out on a date night. Weekdays were busy, but not turbulent. On Saturdays it was hard to get a thirty second piss break. There was always a table that needed more water, more bread, more fucking napkins. It was exhausting.  
  
To make this specific Saturday worse, Mickey was working the line tonight. Mickey didn't usually work the line, he usually worked expo; micro-managing and making sure plates were made in the correct order, in a timely manner and that the plates went out without issue. But of course Mickey had to fire the new line cook earlier that week because the poor kid dropped a whole rack of lamb on the floor. Everyone was surprised Mickey didn't sever the kids limbs and beat the poor fucker with them. Instead, Mickey gave him the verbal lashing of a lifetime, took the price of that lamb out of his paycheck and basically kicked him out the back door. With Mickey being on the line it gave him more opportunities to get aggravated at his staff for small imperfections in their plating, their sautéing, their fucking stirring. Basically, having Mickey on the line was a nightmare for everyone, but god damn if the food didn't come out better than usual. Even though he was a fucking terror, Mickey knew his way around a kitchen and Ian couldn't deny that.  
  
Tonight's special was a fresh grilled tuna topped with baby spinach with a drizzle of blood orange and tomato vinaigrette served on a bed of garlic sesame pan fried cappellini. Best served with a light red wine. For dessert the Saturday special was always the same, house made cannolli shells stuffed with a fresh ricotta filling. The dessert was to die for, Ian always tried to bring some cannolli's home on Saturday nights (they usually never survived the train ride home).  
  
Adjusting his cornflower blue tie in the bathroom mirror and making sure his black button down shirt was tucked in to his black dress pants, Ian exhaled and tried to mentally prepare himself for his tornado of a shift.  
  
"Six hours, it's just six hours." He mumbled softly to himself. Running his hand through his hair and sighing heavily one last time, Ian moved away from the sink and pushed himself through the swinging bathroom door.  
  
Plastering his killer smile on his face he walked over to his first table. It was a younger couple, middle to late twenties and they reeked of arrogance from a mile away. Do you ever just look at someone and know they think they're better than you? They have that look on their face like they're always smelling shit, like nothing is ever good enough and up to their standards? That everyone and everything was beneath them? Yeah...these were those type of people. Fucking great.  
  
 "Good evening, I'm Ian and I will be your server tonight. Would you like to hear our specials for the night?"  
  
"Well you waste no time jumping in do you? We just sat down, maybe give us five minutes to adjust before you try to throw us out the door, ya?" The obnoxious bleached blonde girl said with a scoff and an eye roll in her dates direction.  
  
Holding back his irritation and still keeping that small smile on his face Ian responded with faux enthusiasm "My apologies. Would you like some water while you looked over the menu?"  
  
"Tap or filtered?" Barbie's date finally spoke up.  
  
"It's bottled, poured fresh for each glass."  
  
"Perfect. Two glasses please, light ice."  
  
Ian left their table and walked over to the service station. Unfortunately, dealing with these types of snotty assholes was a daily occurrence. That's the price you pay for working as a waiter in the North Side, you rarely ever get people who were actually fucking nice to you. The tips were well worth all the bullshit.

Pulling two clean water glasses from shelf and filling them with barely any ice and uncapping the water bottles, Ian's favorite co-worker sidled up next to him. Karen was an abrasive blonde with one hell of a dirty vocabulary, but she was brutally honest and funny and Ian loved working with her. She would happily listen to Ian bitch about his tables all night, always joining in with her stories as well. Karen made Ian's shifts go by less painful.  
  
Heading over to the computer and hip checking Ian lightly Karen asked "How's your first table of the night? They look like total fucking douchebags."  
  
"You're not wrong. Barbie over there basically ripped my nuts off when I asked if they wanted to hear the specials."  
  
"If she touches those pretty balls of yours, I'll knock her teeth out."  
  
Ian let out a breathy laugh "Please do that anyway. Her teeth are way to fucking bright, it's obnoxious."  
  
"How do you feel about Mickey working the line tonight? It always makes me nervous as fuck. He's way more intense when he's actually making the food."  
  
"Yeah well, you know how I feel about Mickey already."  
  
And she did. Ian complained about Mickey like it was his job besides waiting tables. Karen didn't see what Ian was complaining about. Yeah, Mickey was aggressive and rude and loud but one thing he didn't do was make mistakes and that's all Ian seemed to notice. None of the other servers plates ever had any mistakes, so Karen didn't understand Ian's aggravation with the chef in that aspect.  
  
"Yeah and you know my theory about that." Karen winked while pantomiming giving a blowjob. Ian smacked her arm and laughed.  
  
"Shut the fuck up, he does not want my dick anywhere near his mouth. _He's_ just a dick."  
  
"Mhhhhhm, sure. Just like _you_ don't want _his_ dick in your mouth. Riiiight."  
  
"I should have never told you I used to think he was hot. I'm never telling you anything ever again."  
  
Taking the glasses of water, Ian left Karen laughing at the service station. So what Ian used to have a small crush on Mickey? The fucker was gorgeous with his piercing blue eyes and jet black hair and he looked sexy as hell in that black chef coat. Ian always had a thing for grumpy guys too, they were endearing and cracking through their tough outer layer was like a game to him. And damn it if Mickey wasn't an amazing chef too. They do say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach.  
  
Placing the glasses of water on the table, Ian plastered on his fake smile.  
  
"Do you folks have any questions or are you ready to order?"  
  
"What's the special tonight?" Barbie asked while twirling her hair. If she was chewing gum she would be popping it.  
  
Holding back his exasperated huff, Ian rattled off tonight's special and answered any other questions the couple had about the menu items. Ian didn't know it was possible to order something rudely, but boy did these people prove him wrong. They interrupted him, didn't say please or thank you and talked to him like he was nothing more than the gum stuck on the bottom of the table. Getting these asshole customers was not a new occurrence, but this was the worst table Ian has had in awhile. Growing up in the South Side you develop a thick skin and don't let things like this affect you, but god did Ian want nothing more than to throw water in Barbie's face and break her dates nose. Unfortunately, all he could do was continue smiling and act as if serving these people was his main purpose in life.  
  
As soon as he walked away from their table, orders memorized, his mouth turned down into an angry frown and his brows furrowed deeply. He wanted to punch something, preferably those customers, but that was not an option. So Ian took to aggressively punching their order into the computer, triple checking that everything was entered in correctly. He did not want to deal with a food fuck up with these people. _Please don't fuck up this order, Mickey_  Ian pleaded silently to the kitchen gods. Any other table would have been manageable, but these people were already putting Ian through hell.  
  
Thankfully, all of Ian's other tables were friendly and polite, even making him laugh, reminding him that he did actually enjoy his job. The people you meet working in the food industry is unparallel to any other profession. And working in the North Side brought a whole different cast of characters than the ones he was used to back home. Intellectuals, politicians, actors, foreign royalty, professional athletes, Ian has served them all and the conversations he has had are irreplaceable. Not to mention the friendships he has formed with his fellow coworkers. It's the best of both worlds. You get insightful and educational conversations in the dining room, but back in the service station or kitchen you get fart noises and yo' mama jokes. Despite the chaotic atmosphere and sometimes less than desirable patrons Ian fucking loved being a waiter and if he ended up serving for the rest of his life he doesn't think he would mind all that much.  
  
Walking over to check on Barbie and Ken, Ian tried to keep his slightly improved mood from disappearing. It would probably be impossible with these assholes.  
  
"How is your meal folks? Is there anything else I can get for you?"  
  
"This vinaigrette is absolutely awful. It's so acidic I can feel the enamel stripping from me teeth!" Barbie said with spit practically flying from her mouth.  
  
Jesus, she had a flare for dramatics. "I apologize for that. Let me take it back and get you a new dish with no vinaigrette. Anything else I can get for you while you wait?"  
  
"More wine please. I'm going to need it to get through this dinner apparently."  
  
Barely containing the growl in the back of this throat, Ian took her plate and proceeded to the kitchen. Pushing through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen, Ian placed the dish on the counter that sits in front of the line.  
  
"Mickey, can you remake tonight's special for table 19 please?"  
  
"The fuck is wrong with it?" Mickey yelled from his position near the grill.  
  
"She said the vinaigrette was too acidic."  
  
"It's fuckin' orange and tomato, the fuck did she expect?"  
  
Sighing heavily, Ian massaged his temples while trying to keep his attitude in check. Dealing with Mickey was something Ian wasn't in the mood for after dealing with these people.   
  
"I don't know. All I know is she wants it remade with no vinaigrette. Help me out, please?" Ian was not above begging at this point. He didn't want Mickey to fuck with him tonight, not with this order. He was already on his last thread of civility with these people, he didn't need Mickey taking what little patience he had left.  
  
"Luckily for your narrow ass someone was smart enough to order the special without any damn vinaigrette. Here, I just finished it." Mickey said while turning from the grill to put the new dish up on the service window. His face was slightly flushed from standing near the heat all night and he had a small smear of sauce on his right cheek. Fuck, maybe Ian's crush didn't disappear as fully as he thought.  
  
"Thank you." Ian responded while taking a deep breath to clear his mind and attempt to shake out the remnants of his temper.  
  
"Aye, let's keep the fuck ups to a minimum tonight, huh Gallagher? I don't like wastin' food."  
  
And just like that Ian was pissed again. With the fuckers out in the dining room and this being the last shift in a sixty hour work week Ian didn't have much self control left. He knew he should stop himself, he knew it was in everyone's best interest to not piss off the chef. But all his control was focused on not cussing out the customers in the dining room, and their tips were more important than Mickey's attitude. The heat was bubbling in his gut and his mouth was moving faster than his brain.  
  
"How the fuck is this my fault?! As a matter of fact, I don't think any of those so called "fuck ups" are my fault."  
  
Mickey carefully put down the knife he was holding and basically stared through Ian's body. "The fuck you tryin' to say Gallagher? Think I don't know how to run my god damn kitchen?"  
  
"I think you fuck up my dishes on purpose. You never make mistakes, Mickey, but for some unknown reason my dishes are always slightly fucked."  
  
_Don't piss off Mickey, don't piss off Mickey._  
  
Too late.  
  
"Maybe you should pay the fuck attention when putting orders in through the computer, huh? Take your plate and get the fuck outta here. Have someone else run your plates for the rest of the night. Don't come back here unless you want a fucking sauce pan to the head."  
  
Ian grabbed his plate angrily and basically kicked through the swinging kitchen doors. He could hear Mickey yelling at his kitchen crew to pick up the pace. Ian single handedly ruined the mood in the kitchen for the night and he couldn't be bothered to care. The kitchen crew is used to dealing with Mickey's mercurial temper. Ian on the other hand, had to take a detour to the service station before going back to Barbie and Ken with their food. He had to calm down, he couldn't go back over there with his breathing this heavy and his ears that certain shade of red they get when he's frustrated. He took a few deep breaths and slowly counted to ten. Shaking out his limbs and cracking his neck, he picked up the food again and brought it over to their table.  
  
"Here you go miss, sorry for the wait. I will be right back with your wine."  
  
Nailed it.  
  
*****  
   
The restaurant closes at 10 and Ian's last table decided to stroll through the door at 9:20. Normally he didn't mind late customers but tonight he just wanted this shift to end so he could get home, smoke a joint and sleep until Monday morning. Once the clock hits 9 there's only one other server working besides Ian and Mickey has dismissed the kitchen crew except for one other cook. There's no need for a full staff when it gets this late, even for a Saturday.  
  
With his one table taken care of for now, Ian slips out into the back alley to have a cigarette. It's been nonstop all night so this was the first opportunity he's had to relax for five minutes. Standing in the dim lit alley, Ian leans on the wall to Bella Sorna and tries not to bash his head into the brick. Lifting the cigarette to his lips and inhaling, he feels half of his nerves dissipate and float into the air with the smoke when he exhales. Of course his last shift of the week couldn't have been an easy one. Even though the majority of his tables for the evening were nothing but polite and he made bank in tips tonight, the argument with Mickey and dealing with Barbie and Ken had set the tone for his entire shift and he just couldn't shake the bad mood he was in. He figured he would need a whole pack of cigarettes and four cannoli's before he felt better.  
  
The back door to the restaurant squeaks open and Ian looks over and groans when he sees it's Mickey.  
  
"Jesus Christ, I can't get five minutes of peace, huh?" Ian says to the sky.  
  
"Calm your tits Gallagher, I'm just taking the trash out."  
  
Ian takes another drag of his cigarette, hoping to finish it sooner now that Mickey is out here. Hauling the garbage over to the dumpster, Mickey lifts up the lid and throws the bag inside. "Alright, get in Gallagher."  
  
Throwing the cigarette filter at Mickey, Ian pushes himself off the wall and stalks over in Mickey's direction and gets closer to him than any sane person would.  
  
"Why are you such a fucking asshole huh?! What did I ever do to you?" Ian spits while pushing Mickey's shoulder. "You've been rude to me since day fucking one. You're not this hostile towards the other fucking servers."  
  
"Watch it." Mickey growls "Stop being a little pussy, I was fucking joking."  
  
"Yeah well I'm sick of it. I don't deserve this shit." Ian says while pushing Mickey's shoulder again.  
  
Mickey sneers and grabs Ian's wrist in a bruising grip and twists it behind his back. Ian gasps at the sudden pain and doesn't notice that Mickey is pushing him towards the wall until his cheek is pressed roughly against the brick.  
  
Mickey leans his chest against Ian's back and whispers angrily into his ear, "You ever fucking touch me like that again we're gonna have fucking problems. I'm not intimidated by your seven foot ass, I'll fucking drop you in a second. You understand?"  
  
Ian nods and scratches his cheek against the rough brick. Mickey releases his arm and Ian turns around to right himself. He expects Mickey to back up and give him space, punch him in the face even. He didn't expect Mickey to not move a single inch and continue to invade his personal space. Ian should be pissed, he should be riled up and ready to keep pushing Mickey into a fight, but there's a fire in Mickey's eyes that makes Ian pause. It's different than the heat associated with rage and anger. It's a heat of want and need and a look that Ian is all too familiar with. Ian doesn't say anything, he doesn't move, he barely even breathes. He just stares into Mickey's eyes. Mickey staring right back. Mickey's eyes flick down to Ian's lips briefly before bringing his eyes back to Ian's. Mickey pulls his own lip between his teeth, grinding back and forth against the flesh.  
  
The shift in the atmosphere was palpable and confusing. One minute ago blood was ready to be spilled, but now...now Ian can't stop looking at those fucking lips.  
  
Fuck it. Mickey is already rearing to kick Ian's ass, might as well add a little bit more fuel to that fire if his signals are getting mixed. Ian surges forward and attaches his lips to Mickey's and Mickey is immediately responsive. He reaches forward and grabs Ian's hip to pull him closer and rests his other hand on the wall beside Ian's head. They kiss fast and feverishly, tongues sliding back and forth, teeth nibbling, groans slipping past parted lips. Ian grasps onto the back of Mickey's neck to try to pull him in closer. He tastes like cigarettes and mint and Ian thinks it's his new favorite flavor. He can't get enough, can't taste enough of Mickey. It's all consuming and he wants _more._  
  
Mickey reluctantly pulls back from the kiss to gasp for some oxygen, but Ian was far from done. He latches his lips onto Mickey's neck and trails them lightly over his flesh, stopping every few centimeters to suck and bite and lick. The breathy exhales coming from Mickey's mouth spur him on further and he is determined to mark this fucker up, leave hickey's up and down his neck. Trailing his lips down to the junction of Mickey's shoulder and neck, Ian moves his collar out of the way and bites down hard. Mickey moans and pulls Ian's groin against his own, moving in slow circles. Ian groans against Mickey's skin and continues to suck and bite like this is his last meal.  
  
Satisfied with the bruise he sees forming on his neck, Ian goes back up to Mickey's mouth and it's just as desperate and needy as before. The hand Mickey had leaning on the wall moves down Ian's neck, ribs, hips and lands on the waistband of Ian's pants. Unbuttoning Ian's pants and zipping down his fly, Mickey's mouth works its way over Ian's jaw, nipping here and there. When Mickey reaches Ian's earlobe and slowly draws it into his mouth, his hand reaches into Ian's slacks and starts rubbing him over his boxers.   
  
"Shit. You're fuckin' big, huh?" Mickey breathily laughs into his ear.   
  
Ian moans and leans his head back on the wall, nicking his skull on the brick. Mickey keeps slowly working Ian's cock while sucking and licking down his neck.   
  
"Fuck, Mickey. That feels so good." Ian huffs out. Mickey groans in response and removes his lips from Ian's neck and attacks his mouth again. It's a rough clash of teeth and Ian greedily sucks on Mickey's top lip. Mickey withdraws his hand from Ian's cock and hastily pushes Ian's pants and boxers half way down his thighs. He strokes him once, twice, before he drops down onto his knees. Mickey licks and sucks at Ian's hipbone and leaves a trail of saliva as he moves over to Ian's cock.   
  
"Mick-fuck...Mickey. I can't- I can't stain these pants. They're the only ones I have."   
  
With Ian's cock still in his hand, Mickey looks up at Ian with his pupils so blown out there's barely a ring of blue around the edges. He lifts his lips off of Ian's skin and says "It's okay. I can take it."   
  
With that Mickey leans in and sucks one of Ian's testicles into his mouth. Ian's knees shake and almost give out and Mickey, gently, grabs onto his hips to keep him standing.  Moving over to the other testicle, Mickey sucks a little harder, rolling his tongue around Ian. It takes everything in him not to scream out in pleasure. Mickey slowly licks a stripe leading from the base of Ian's cock to the tip and licks the slit a few times before taking the head into his mouth and sucking lightly.   
  
"Oh fuck yes." Ian moans. He reaches a hand down and grabs onto the back of Mickey's head and tangles his fingers in his thick black hair as Mickey works Ian's dick further into his mouth. Ian's other hand scrabbles at the wall, scratching to find some ledge to keep him tethered to the earth.   
  
Mickey moans around his dick and it sends shockwaves through his system, feeling like there's lightening shooting through his veins. Looking down through hooded eyes, Ian takes a mental picture of the image before him. Mickey fucking Milkovich down on his knees, his plump red lips stretched around his cock, Mickey's hand wrapped around his own dick in his chef pants. God, Ian would play this movie over and over if he had the chance.   
  
Mickey bobs his head up and down while sucking with the ease of a professional, his tongue a constant pressure on the bottom of Ian's dick. Ian gasps every time he knocks against the back of Mickey's throat. His fingers tug on the threads of Mickey's hair every time Mickey holds him in his mouth and swallows around his cock. It's been so, so long since Ian has met someone who could fit his whole cock in their mouth and here comes Mickey not even bating a fucking eyelash while deep throating him. This is, without a doubt, the best blowjob Ian has ever received. He would sell his soul to the devil if it meant he could have Mickey's mouth around his dick every day for the rest of his life. It's fucking filthy the noises that are falling out of Mickey's mouth, soft moans accompanying the sick slick sound of his lips moving over his skin. Everything is so hot; Mickey's mouth, the air around them, Ian. He feels like his clothes shrunk three sizes and the cotton is trying to suffocate him.  
  
"Fuck-fuck I'm gonna come." Ian gasps out while trying to tug Mickey off his dick. But Mickey sucks harder with every tug Ian administers and Ian is breathing so, so hard. Mickey pulls back so just the head of Ian's dick is in his mouth, his tongue putting a delicious pressure where the head meets the shaft. The one hand that has had a bruising grip on Ian's hip the entire time reaches down to wrap around the shaft. There's so much of Mickey's spit built up on his dick that his rough, calloused hand glides over his flesh with ease.   
  
Mickey sucks and flicks Ian's slit hungrily while frantically tugging on him and twisting his wrist in the most devilish ways. Mickey's hand is moving so fast over his own dick that it looks painful, but his deep moans suggest the contrary. Ian's whole body is vibrating, his vision is going white even though his eyes are squeezed shut.   
  
"Mick-" Ian gasps out and pulls on Mickey's hair again. His abdominal muscles clench and he can feel his balls getting tight. He tugs roughly on Mickey's hair again as a warning before he shoots his load into Mickey's waiting mouth, moaning so loudly someone on the street must have heard. Mickey greedily swallows and licks Ian through his orgasm, while groaning through his own release.   
  
Slowing his ministrations on his own dick, Mickey drops Ian from his mouth and licks him clean one last time. He wipes his own hand on the ground below and leans back on his heels. Mickey looks up at Ian and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are so swollen and red, his cheeks flushed and slightly tear stained. It's the most gorgeous thing Ian has ever seen.  
  
"That-" Mickey gasps out "was hot as fuck."   
  
Ian is still leaning against the wall with his dick out. His eyes are closed and he is trying hard to get his breathing under control. Mickey huffs out a laugh and gets to his feet, pulling up Ian's boxers and slacks and buttoning them for him. Mickey leans in to give Ian a slow, gentle kiss. It was sweeter than the ones before and the lingering taste of himself on Mickey's tongue makes him moan lowly.   
  
Mickey pulls away and gently pats Ian on the cheek twice. "Gotta head back in, got inventory tonight."  
  
Ian just nods in response, his throat is so dry. He can't believe that actually just happened. He watches Mickey's retreating form head towards the back door, eyes greedily trailing down his back and focusing on his ass. Mickey pauses and turns around, pushing his tongue into the corner of his mouth and wiping his bottom lip with his thumb, Mickey says "By the way, I do fuck up your plates on purpose. I like when your ears get redder than your hair. It's cute."  
  
Mickey gives Ian a smug smile and reaches for the door handle and heads back into the restaurant.  
  
Ian's last thought before finally pushing off the wall is Karen was fucking right after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Was it terrible? Does your brain hurt? Do I throw in the towel? I've thought about this becoming a little series of three independent stories, all revolving around Mickey and food, some of my favorite things. Thank you for taking the time to read this and I appreciate any and all feedback I can receive! ♥ 
> 
> come yell at me on [tumblr.](http://horror-biz.tumblr.com/)


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